Murder at Marble House (28 page)

I was what I was: simple, often headstrong Emma Cross, who never could and never would be comfortable putting on airs. And Derrick couldn’t change what he was: the scion of a wealthy, powerful family for whom propriety and appearances were too vital to be ignored. If Brady was a buck trampling the flowers here at Gull Manor, in Derrick’s world I’d be the goose ruffling the feathers of all the swans.

“Derrick, I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” I said into the telephone.

He was not to be deterred. “It’s important. Please.”

I squeezed my fingers around the ear trumpet. If Consuelo could find the courage to face a future she didn’t want, surely I could find the courage to tell Derrick Andrews once and for all that, while I would always care for him, I would never be his wife. Surely I could find the fortitude to finally set him free.

But that, I knew, could not be accomplished over the phone.

“I’ll meet you outside your hotel in an hour.”

 

After asking me to drive us to the Point, Derrick was oddly silent during the ride. Despite my reporter’s nature I didn’t question him. My answers would come soon enough.

He directed me down Third Street, and when we came to Walnut Street, he instructed me to turn right. We halted in front of my family’s three-story clapboard home.

“What are we doing?” I asked with a little chuckle when he didn’t immediately say anything. “You’re being terribly mysterious.”

His indrawn breath somehow raised butterflies in my stomach. When I thought I could stand it no longer, he said, “I’ve purchased a house here on the Point.”

“Oh, is that all?” Another, lighter chuckle released some of my tension, although not all. So he wouldn’t return once and for all to Providence and disappear from my life. I admit to a host of mixed emotions, some of which I didn’t care to examine too closely. Yet I couldn’t deny a surge of relief that when we did say good-bye, it wouldn’t be forever. “You were afraid I’d disapprove, were you?” I looked around at the houses lining the street, most of which had been occupied by the same families for decades, some for generations. “I wasn’t aware any homes were for sale. Which is it?”

“That one.” He raised his hand to point.

My jaw dropped open. He pointed to the house I’d grown up in.

A frantic parade of explanations ran through my mind: it was a joke; he actually meant the house next door; he’d only rented one of the apartments . . .

But there was no mistaking the line of his forefinger, or the apologetic frown tightening his brow.

“But you can’t have.” My voice shook slightly. “It’s not for sale. I’d have known if it had been for sale.”

“They didn’t want you to know, Emma. Your parents needed the funds, and they assumed you’d try to stop the sale. One of the tenants is moving out in two weeks. I’ll take over that flat.”

The trembling that began in my heart spread to encompass all of me. “Oh, God. Please tell me this is a joke.”

When he said nothing I dropped the reins and climbed down from the rig. Blindly I scrambled over the curbstone and headed for the front door. I don’t know what I would have done when I reached it—barged inside, startling poor Mrs. Carter and her sister as they sat hunched over their knitting?

I never made it that far, for Derrick came up behind me and seized my wrist. He turned me about, and I very nearly swung my free hand, palm flat, against his cheek. Oh, I wanted to slap him—every fiber in my being demanded it. Yet my hand stopped in midair as the two of us stood frozen, there on the narrow brick walkway, me panting and Derrick beseeching me with his eyes.

“How could you? How could you betray me like this?”

“Would you rather it had gone to strangers?”

“I’d have bought it myself!”

“With what?”

I tugged to free my wrist, but he held on relentlessly. “Uncle Cornelius . . . or Aunt Alva. They’d have bought the house for me.” Yet even as I made the claim, I knew—I
knew
—I couldn’t have accepted their money. Castoff clothing and telephones were one thing, but a house? Damn my pride, but yes, I would have allowed my family’s home to go to strangers rather than accept my relatives’ charity on so large a scale.

Another realization hit me. It wasn’t Derrick who had betrayed me. It was my parents. Yet again. Always so caught up in their own artistic world, so oblivious to the realities of anyone else’s. But, after all, this was their house—or was—to do with as they pleased. Another blow struck me. I’d wanted them home not long ago, when Brady had been accused of murder. I’d wanted my parents here to help, to offer comfort, to lean on....

They were not coming home. Ever. Perhaps that is what this house had come to mean to me—a promise that they would be back someday. But this drove home the fact that they’d chosen Paris, and all that city had to offer, over their children. I shouldn’t have been surprised. But the wound cut deep all the same, so deep that for a moment I couldn’t breathe.

“You could have said something,” I said weakly. “Instead, you sneaked around, buying my home out from under me.” Why was I continuing to blame him? Somehow, I couldn’t stop myself from lashing out at him. Perhaps only because he was here, while my parents were not. “What about Brady? Shall he have his things removed immediately?”

Derrick released my wrist. “Brady can continue to occupy the top floor.”

“How accommodating of you.”

“Free of charge.”

I shook my head. “We won’t accept your charity, Derrick.”

“Emma, please.” He reached for me again, not to seize me, but to lay a placating hand on my shoulder. The weight of it infused me with warmth. I wanted to step away, but I couldn’t . . . simply couldn’t make my feet move. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Father’s financial agent heard about the house going up for sale and contacted me immediately. He knew I was thinking about investing here in Newport. It all happened very fast—”

“Have you not heard of the telephone, Derrick? It’s a wonderful invention, and a very fast means of communication. I have one in my home, in case you’d forgotten. I’m sure the Atlantic House Hotel has at least one at their guests’ disposal.”

His hand left my shoulder. His cheek gave a telltale twitch. “I thought it was the best solution—better, as I said, than letting your house go to strangers.”

“I intend to buy it back,” I announced, surprising myself, and him, judging by his expression. When he started to speak, I cut him off. “No, I don’t have the money—yet. But in time I will. Somehow. I’ll work harder, write more articles. Promise me, Derrick. Promise me that when I have the money, you will sell me my house back.”

He studied me a long time. Gradually the pain of guilt smoothed away and the familiar Derrick reappeared: patrician, confident, and just a little bit cocky. “You know, Emma, there’s a way for this house to be yours without your having to buy it.”

He smiled his dashing, heart-melting, infinitely infuriating grin, and everything inside me froze. I braced for his next words, certain I knew what they would be. A war of uncertainty waged inside of me, along with a wisp of anger. Would he actually dangle my childhood home in front of me as an enticement to marry him? Could he be so manipulative?

The words never came. He merely stood there, smiling, allowing his implied meaning to stew inside me. Villain.

I raised my chin. “I’m going home. Would you like a ride into town?”

“No, thank you. I need to speak with the tenant who’s moving. I’ll make my way back into town later.”

“Well, then, good day to you, sir, and enjoy your house. For now.” With that I strode past him, climbed back into my carriage, turned Barney about, and drove away, leaving Derrick standing in front of his new property, thinking whatever he would.

It was only once I’d turned the corner that my eyes began to burn and my surroundings blurred. Good gracious, I’d lost my house, my childhood home....

No, that wasn’t it, not entirely. I couldn’t have said exactly
what
it was. Mere emotional exhaustion, perhaps. Yet, by the time I reached the other end of Third Street, the breeze had dried my tears to sticky tracks against my cheeks and, in spite of everything, a little smile forced its way to my lips. I might have lost my house to a sneaky rogue who believed he could manipulate me . . .

But I hadn’t lost
him
—I hadn’t lost Derrick, however much I kept telling myself I needed to set him free.

No, he would be here, an on-and-off Newporter, and—

I put from my mind any further thoughts of what that would mean. I simply refused to consider it.

Derrick would be here, and for now . . .

That was enough.

C
onsuelo Vanderbilt did indeed rebel against her impending engagement to the ninth Duke of Marlborough in the summer of 1895. In her mind, she was already engaged, however unofficially, to the much older Winthrop Rutherfurd, whom she fondly referred to as “Winty,” and with whom she had come to an understanding of a romantic nature some weeks earlier, while riding bicycles together with friends and family in New York. Her ambitious mother had other ideas. Upon arriving in Newport that summer and discovering that Consuelo had found means of seeing Winty, Alva resorted to holding her daughter a virtual prisoner at Marble House, refusing entry to any of her friends and possibly even faking a heart condition to play on the naïve eighteen-year-old’s sympathies. Alva’s ploys worked; overwhelmed by her mother’s domineering personality, unable to call upon the support of friends or family, and defeated by a complete sense of isolation, an unhappy Consuelo relented and married the Duke that November.

According to the history books, Alva Vanderbilt’s temper was legendary, and in fact few people possessed the fortitude to stand up to her. Perhaps her temperament was the result of living in the “gilded cage,” of feeling dissatisfied with society’s approved means of channeling a woman’s ambitions. Her dedication to women’s suffrage was very real, although I have set her involvement years earlier than it actually occurred. It was by the second decade of the twentieth century that she would become a politically active participant in the cause, and Marble House became a gathering place for the growing movement. By then, a newly divorced Consuelo supported her mother in these endeavors. Finding common ground and coming together, finally, as equals, the two forged a stronger and far more sympathetic relationship than they had ever enjoyed previously. Alva spent her later years in France to be near her daughter, who, in 1921, happily married a man of her own choosing, Frenchman Jacques Balsan.

Readers who are familiar with Marble House might wonder why I set the murder in a generic “garden pavilion” rather than the iconic Chinese Tea House that graces the rear lawns to this day. The answer is simple: The Tea House didn’t exist in 1895, and wouldn’t until 1914. After marrying her second husband, Oliver H. P. Belmont, in 1896, Alva closed Marble House until after his death in 1908. The house had stood empty for more than a decade, but then she moved back in, commissioned the Chinese Tea House to be built, and used both structures to host rallies and fund-raisers to support the right to vote for women.

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Alyssa Maxwell’s next Gilded Newport Mystery

 

 

coming in June 2015 from Kensington Publishing!